Black Night Falling

Home > Other > Black Night Falling > Page 13
Black Night Falling Page 13

by Rod Reynolds


  ‘Same way you did with Jimmy Robinson?’

  He uncrossed his arms, looked at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Did you set the fire at Duke’s?’ I said.

  ‘What? No, course I didn’t.’

  ‘I know you knew about it.’

  ‘Ain’t the same thing.’ He stepped out of the corner and set himself in the middle of the room. ‘You been talking to Clay Tucker.’

  I said nothing, imagining Tucker squealing to Barrett the minute I left. Every muscle in my body was tensed. ‘Who did then?’

  He closed his eyes and exhaled. ‘The more you know, the quicker it’ll get you killed.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘Then you sure as hell gonna end up like your friend. A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘You condescending son of a—’

  ‘You think there’s safety in the truth, is that it? I’m here to tell you it got your friend killed. Hell, the man that wore the sheriff’s badge before me was shot in broad daylight because he didn’t know when to zip his mouth, and wasn’t no one even arrested for it. That’s how truth goes in this town.’

  ‘Sheriff Cooper. Your boss had him killed, didn’t he? Put you right in the dead man’s shoes.’

  He glared at me, his jaw muscles bulging.

  ‘My friend came to see you, didn’t he? Jimmy Robinson.’

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. Then he nodded. ‘He did.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He’d arrived at a wrong conclusion.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  He shook his head. ‘For your sake, you don’t want me to get into it. Just know that he was wrong, and so are you if you think I killed him.’

  ‘You came here for his papers, then. Dressing it up as some bullshit warning to me doesn’t make you any different to a common thief.’

  He twitched. ‘I told you once, I ain’t know what papers you’re talking about. Now, I’ll see myself out, but so I can leave knowing I made it plain, hear this: get out of town today. Right now. I’m sorry for your friend, but ain’t no good can come from you ending up the same way.’

  He picked up his hat and placed it on his head, started towards the door.

  ‘Did Teddy Coughlin send you to deliver that message? He must be in worse shape than I thought if you’re the best he’s got.’

  He stopped in front of me. ‘Ain’t no one sent me.’ He blew a breath out, frustrated. ‘I tried my damnedest to warn your friend and he still wound up dead. I got no use for seeing history repeat.’

  He opened the door, but I slammed it shut again. ‘You’re not leaving with those papers—’

  Before I could finish the sentence, his pistol was out of his holster and in my stomach.

  I couldn’t hear anything, and for a heartbeat I thought he’d pulled the trigger and I was already falling. Then the sound of my own breathing broke through – shallow, distorted – and I felt the blood rushing back into my limbs. His face was inches from mine.

  ‘I don’t scare that easy, Barrett.’ I tensed my gut to still a tremble as I said it.

  He looked at me, held it, his eyes a watery blue that, strangely, betrayed no malice. ‘I believe you. And it’s a damn shame.’

  He stepped around me and out through the door. I watched from the doorway as he crossed to the far end of the parking lot, hand on his gun, glancing back at me as he went. The grey LaSalle was parked among other cars there, same one I’d seen outside his house, and I kicked myself for missing it on the way in. He climbed inside and pulled away.

  The fear started to subside, and in its place came the familiar surge of rage. I braced myself on the desk, shaking, fighting not to snatch up the chair from the floor and put it through the window, disgusted at my old weakness: finding bravery in anger only once the danger had passed. I took a half-dozen deep breaths, determined to control myself and not to slip back down the path of surrendering to my basest impulses.

  The white heat passed, and all that was left was a hollow feeling, like taking a gutful of liquor on an empty stomach. I couldn’t make any sense of it. Barrett admitted he’d known about the fire, but was adamant he wasn’t behind it. Clay Tucker loomed in my thoughts, and I wondered if he’d bought me off with half the story – if he’d set the fire after all, but told me about Barrett’s warning to let me jump to my own conclusions. But then there were Robinson’s files – why would Barrett steal them if they weren’t incriminating? How the hell did he even find out about them? And why was I still alive if it was him killed Robinson—

  A knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts with a start. I peered out the window, expecting I’d find Barrett, come back to finish the job. Instead, I saw the motel manager. I opened up.

  ‘Mr Yates, got a message for—’

  ‘Did you let someone into my room?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘My room. Did someone get a key from you?’

  He blanched. ‘Of course not. I don’t know what you’re referring to.’

  Maybe I was a sucker, but I believed him. The lock was a simple one, easy enough to pick. Hell, Barrett could have had master keys for the whole town for all I knew. ‘Forget it. What’s the message?’

  He looked shaken, struggling to keep up. ‘It’s— Your wife, she said it was urgent, so I thought I should come right over.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She sounded upset. She asked you to telephone as soon as possible.’

  The floor lurched under me. I pushed past him and ran across to the office, yanked the door open. The telephone was on a desk at the side. I ducked under the counter and snatched it up. The operator got me a circuit to the Journal and I counted the seconds as I waited for the connection. The manager came in after me, panting, started a half-hearted protest about me using their line, but I shot him a look that shut him up.

  Acheson’s secretary answered and I asked for Lizzie.

  ‘Mr Yates, is that you? She’s gone home.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You should talk with her.’

  I broke the connection and asked the operator to put me through to our home line. When the call finally went through, Lizzie answered straightaway. ‘Charlie?’

  ‘I’m here. What’s happened?’

  Her voice was strained. ‘We’ve been robbed. They— Our house, they’ve torn it apart.’

  ‘Are you okay? Were you at home?’

  ‘No, no, I’m all right. I was at the paper. Charlie, it’s . . .’ Her voice broke.

  I closed my eyes, relief the first sensation flooding me at the knowledge she wasn’t hurt. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They’ve ransacked our home. It’s ruined. Clothes, the furniture. Everything.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, it looks like a bomb went off. They broke all the windows.’

  My head was pounding, blindsided by another haymaker. I tried to think what we had of value that they could have taken. ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime this morning. They must have come right after I left for the office. The police called to tell me they were here and it was a mess. They told me the neighbours telephoned it in.’

  ‘Did they catch anyone?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘What about a description? They must have heard—’

  ‘They told the officers it was two men, but the details they gave could be of anybody. Dark clothes, dark hats, stocky builds. They said they looked out in time to see them smash the last of the windows and then they took off towards the marina. They must have been inside the house for such a long time – they’ve wrecked everything.’

  ‘I’m coming home. I’ll get the first flight I can. Take a room in a hotel until I can get there. If you need money, get Acheson to float you an advance – I’ll call him to—’

  ‘Charlie, hold on a minute.’ She snatched a breath. ‘I will not be chased out of my own home again, not after Tex
arkana.’ The indignation in her voice reminded me that my wife was tougher than she looked, and twice as wilful. It was one of the things I loved about her. ‘I’ve called a locksmith and he’s going to be here soon.’ She faked a breezy tone. ‘Besides, it’s not like they left any reason to come back.’

  ‘You’d be safer—’

  ‘My mind’s made up, Charlie. And I thought about it before you called, and I don’t think you should come home. Not if you’re not ready.’

  ‘What? I need to be there. I need to know—’

  ‘Hear me out.’ She took a breath, as if she’d been preparing what she’d say next. ‘What you said the other day struck a chord with me. You could have walked away at any point in Texarkana, and no one would have thought any less of you, but you didn’t. That’s who you are, and it’s why I love you. I can’t ask you to change now. If you can stop someone else having to go through what I did . . .’

  I leaned on the desk, surprised by her candour – adrenaline and emotion loosening her tongue, everything spilling out together. The more she told me to stay, the more I wanted to go to her. ‘Will you reconsider on the hotel, at least?’

  ‘I’d sooner buy a gun.’

  I smiled despite myself. ‘I’ll call you again tonight.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  *

  Gravel dust clung to my damp trouser legs as I made my way back across the parking lot. The urge to blow town walked with me. Lizzie was scared, maybe even in danger. Robinson’s notes were gone. I could still feel where Barrett’s gun touched my stomach. I put my hand on the doorknob and thought about just walking away. Lizzie’s words echoed in my ears then, and it shamed me to think she held me in higher esteem than I ever deserved.

  I went inside to change into dry clothes. I pulled a new shirt on, thinking about Robinson’s notes and wondering if Barrett had already destroyed them. Figure he must have. I pictured him taking the call from Tucker and racing over here to threaten me. Busting into my room and finding the papers stacked there. How long was he in here for? At least long enough to skim-read the notes and realise what they were. He had to assume I’d done the same, and that made it even stranger that he’d left me alive after that. Maybe only the fact that he wasn’t prepared for what he found saved me – for now. He swore he didn’t start the fire, but everything he’d done said that was a lie. If he killed Jimmy for what he knew, punching my ticket was the logical next step. Unless—

  Unless something he found out was more pressing. His words came back to me: ‘You been talking to Clay Tucker.’ The inflection in his voice – a hint of uncertainty; a question, not a statement. And then I saw I’d got it all wrong.

  Tucker never squealed to him – Barrett put it together on the spot. No one else could have clued me in. Which meant I’d given Tucker up to Barrett—

  I ran to the car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I skidded to a stop in almost the same spot as before outside Leland Tucker’s cabin. I snatched a look each way along the road, saw no other cars there. The afternoon was bright enough, but with the sun lower in the sky than when I’d visited that morning, the scrub in front of the house was in shade, and the place felt dank. The rocking chairs on the porch were empty and still.

  I ran to the front door and hammered on it, the sound reverberating around the clearing. There was no answer. I looked over, saw the two pickups were still parked at the side of the house. The breeze caught the trees and dappled sunlight moved and shimmered across the ground. I walked along the porch, peering through the windows, looking for movement, listening for sounds from inside. I came to the end and went around the corner of the house, followed the gentle slope down towards Stokes Creek. I felt my skin gooseflesh. ‘Tucker?’

  I followed the wall to the far side of the building, had a view of the water now. I stopped still, keeping one hand on the corner of the house, as though there was some safety in that tether. I could hear the faint slap of the water against the bank. I called out again. No response.

  I took two tentative steps towards the creek. Then I saw what the water was washing against, making the slapping sound. Not the bank. A figure, lying motionless, his lower half in the water. Clay Tucker.

  I ran over, my stomach like a sack full of pins.

  I crouched next to him and reached down to check for a pulse. His hair and face were wet, his neck too, but it was the greasy damp of water on lifeless skin. Dead.

  I lifted my head, panic rising up in me. ‘Leland?’ His brother was nowhere in sight. I examined Tucker’s body for signs of injury, couldn’t see any. I shot to my feet and looked around.

  I caught a glimpse of something back towards the house. It was on the ground between the pickups, hidden from view when I’d come down from the road. I moved towards it, a sinking feeling dragging on me like my blood had turned to lead, getting wise early to what I was going to find.

  Leland was face down in the leaves. He was motionless.

  I checked his pulse, knowing there wouldn’t be one. There was blood on his cheek, looked like it’d streamed from his mouth. He was gripping something in his hand. I bent close, saw it was a car key. A nightmare made real – seeing his own brother killed, then suffering the same fate as he tried to flee.

  I heard a sound and jerked my head up, realising late that the killer might not have left. I stayed low, backed away from the body so I was shielded between the two pickups. I looked all around, watching for movement and listening hard.

  Nothing happened. The trees kept swaying in the wind, and small waves rippled on the water. I could feel the pounding of my own heartbeat. I counted off two minutes, then made a break for my car. I jumped in and started the engine, glancing outside for any sign of danger.

  The house was still.

  *

  ‘You been talking to Clay Tucker.’

  Barrett’s words haunted me as I sped away from the carnage at Tucker’s place. I envisaged him going straight from my motel to Tucker’s cabin; the terror in Tucker’s eyes when he saw him arrive, fearing the worst about Barrett’s intentions, then having all those fears met. I slammed my hand on the steering wheel, sickened by my own failings. The blood on my hands.

  I pulled over at a diner on the road back from the creek, a dirty swill of anger, guilt and fear pooling in my guts. I used the telephone to call the police, told them there was a body in the water at Tucker’s address and hung up. I didn’t want my name taken down in connection with the call.

  I was about to go when I remembered Masters’ warning from that morning – that if anything happened to Clay Tucker, he’d know to come looking for me. I braced myself against the wall, a new sense of anxiety rising in my chest, seeing everything with fresh eyes now: stopping at the general store to ask for directions to Tucker’s. My footprints in the mud around the bodies. My fingerprints on the window glass. I searched my memory, tried to think if a neighbour could have seen me scuffle with Tucker. None of the houses along the bank were in view of his – but then I remembered the houses on the opposite shore. At least three had a clear view across the narrow waterway.

  I picked up the phone again and asked to be connected to Masters’ campaign office. I barely recognised my own voice as I spoke. A staffer picked up and called Masters to the line.

  ‘Twice in one day, Mr Yates; to what do I owe the honour?’

  ‘Clay Tucker is dead. His brother too.’

  Masters let out a stunted breath. When he spoke again, his voice was a gruff whisper. ‘Please tell me you didn’t kill him.’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. That’s what I’m calling to tell you.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I found the bodies. At his house. I telephoned it into the cops just now.’

  ‘Goddammit, you went there after what I said this morning? You expect me to believe you went on out there and just happened to find—’

  ‘He was alive. I went there this morning and he was alive.’

  ‘And t
hen you went back and he was dead? Buddy, what kind of a fool do you take me for?’

  ‘There’s more to it. Tucker told me Cole Barrett—’

  ‘Stop. Stop. Listen to me good: I’m not your attorney, if you tell me something incriminating, it’s not protected, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear it without due process.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I know that, I don’t need an attorney. Tucker told me Barrett warned him about the fire the night it happened. When I got back to my motel, Barrett was waiting for me. I called him on it, and he knew it was Tucker who told me. Then he pulled a gun on me. Now you tell me that doesn’t make him suspect number one.’

  ‘No, that would be you. If your story’s true, I’ll grant he’s got some questions to answer, but right now, you need to drive yourself to the nearest police station and hand yourself in.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m onto something here, I know it. Jimmy Robinson was killed because he got close to it. It’s all connected – Walter Glover, the women he murdered, Coughlin, Barrett, the fire. I don’t know how, yet, but I will do.’

  ‘NO. Let this alone, Yates. If there’s something to find out, we’ll do it. Give yourself in and clear your name, that’s your best course of action.’

  ‘To who – Garland Sheriff’s? Barrett’s old running buddies?’

  He exhaled. ‘Try Hot Springs PD. They’ll book you at their offices and you’ll get a chance to tell your side of the story. You can get out in front of this.’

  I thought about Detective Layfield, wondered if he’d give me a fair shake, then remembered being suspicious when he said he wasn’t well acquainted with Barrett. ‘I can’t do that. Just know that I’m innocent.’

  ‘Yates, tell me where you are and we can—’

  ‘I’ll call you again when I’ve got the answers.’

  *

  I figured Masters would be on the horn to the cops as soon as I hung up, so going back to the motel was out of the question. Didn’t bother me. The burglary back home had made me realise I hadn’t owned anything of value in a long time. Lizzie was the only thing I cared about.

 

‹ Prev